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EDWIN   MARKHAM,    THE   HOEMAN. 
Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox"  (?). 

In  every  breast  a  garden  grows ; 

In  every  soul  an  angel  sings; 

In  every  breath  I  hear  the  wings, 
And  every  sod  doth  yield  a  rose. 


TOIL 


BY 


DANIEL 

FLORENCE 

LEARY 


OF   T«K 

UNIVERSITY 


8an  Francisco 

The  Whitaker  and  Kay  Company 

(Incorporated) 

1900 


Copyright,  1900, 

by 

The  Whitaker  and  Ray  Company 
(Incorporated). 

^ 


DEDICATED 

TO  THE   BLOOMING  BRIDE  WHOM  THE  FATES  LONG  AGO 

SENTENCED  TO   BREAK   BREAD   IN  A  CELL  WITH 

ME  TILL  DEATH  SHOULD  SEVER. 


O,  the  rarest  life,  that  is  free  from  strife, 

Is  the  life  that  true  loving  lends 
Its  rays  of  gold  as  the  life  grows  old, 

And  its  light  with  the  shadows  blends. 
Ah,  the  toiler's  life  is  a  wholesome  life, 

When  the  love  that  is  rarest  rings ; 
For  the  love  that  shares  in  the  humble  fare 

Is  sweet  as  in  court  of  kings. 

O,  the  spice  of  life  is  a  winsome  wife, 

Where  the  love  of  a  soul  may  flow, 
With  her  face  so  fair,  and  her  love  so  rare, 

And  a  heart  that 's  unknown  to  woe. 
How  the  years  have  sped,  and  the  lives  we  've  led, 

With  the  soul  of  true  love  aglow ; 
For  the  love  that  shares  in  the  humble  fare 

Is  as  sweet  as  the  proud  may  know. 


83654 


TOIL. 


PART  I. 


I. 
How  false  the  note  from  him  who  sings 

That  toiling  lends  a  sloping  brow% 
But  brutal  minds  behind  the  plow; 

His  soul  may  soar,  but  not  on  wings. 

The  world  wafts  far  beyond  his  ken. 
True  toiling  is  the  truest  creed, 
The  hammer  rings  in  richest  meed; 

It  wins  the  laurel  from  the  pen. 

God  wisely  works  through  human  will, 
In  ways  where  words  must  ever  fail; 
He  moves  behind  the  mystic  veil 

Of  soul  and  sense  to  deeds,  that  thrill ; 

Through  impulse  oft  of  lowly  minds:  — 
Minds  meted  low  by  wand  of  schools, 
Where  knowledge,  from  the  brains  of  fools, 

So  oft  but  vapid  words  unwinds. 

7 


Toil. 

n. 

A  man  who  will  not  work,  I  hold, 

Though  walking  o'er  the  teeming  earth, 
Within  himself  is  breeding  death ; 

He  stalks  the  earth  a  phantom  cold. 

For  idleness  no  boon  may  bear; 

Its  sonl  can  feed  no  altar- flame; 

No  mystic  chords  the  passions  tame ; 
No  music  beats  to  banish  fear. 

It  ne'er  may  bear  a  precious  gift 
To  lighten  toil,  to  brighten  love; 
It  wins  no  blessing  from  above. 

No  smiles  unwind;   no  burdens  shift. 


in. 
There  shines  in  honest  hearts  of  toil 

A  lighted  altar  white  and  pure, 

Where  angels  hover  to  allure 
To  ways  of  peace  from  wrath  and  broil. 

Man  toiling  strives  for  that  he  likes, 
'Twixt  life  without  and  wish  within, 
The  ways  are  wide  he  travels  in,— 

He  frequent  loses  that  he  strikes. 

For  some  must  wear  a  cross  of  thorns, 
While  others'  paths  are  flower- strewn, 
With  every  wind  some  blessing  's  blown; 

Will  weal  for  toil  unwind  the  Norns. 


Toil. 

IV. 

The  poorest  man  that  walks  the  earth 
May  reach  the  highest  destiny, 

Through  seas  of  Psychic  Mystery, — 
Upbuild  his  soul,  renew  his  birth. 

Who  looks  aloft  and  reaches  far 
For  wisdom's  light  to  noblest  gifts, 
Himself  to  highest  heights  uplifts, 

His  spirit  soars,  a  shining  star. 

The  humblest  wight  may  highest  soar, 
The  highest  peaks  of  song  invest; 
The  crudest  thought  in  simple  breast, 

Refined,  may  shine  the  richest  ore. 

The  uncut  jewels  of  his  mind, 

When  polished  into  shining  thought, 
Are  oft  with  rarest  wisdom  fraught, 

And  glow  with  love  for  human-kind. 

The  farmer  with  a  hoe  for  crest, 
The  hardy  fisher  of  the  sea, 
The  lowly  herdsman  of  the  lea  — 

Their  sacrifice  by  Heaven  is  blessed. 


v. 

This  little  pool  of  song's  desire, 
That  glasses  all  my  skies  above, 
That  ripples  to  the  breath  of  love 

May  strike  a  chord  a  soul  to  fire; 


10  Toil. 

May  blend  in  iris  hues  my  words; 
Prismatic  beauties  glint  and  glow 
The  thoughts  that  truth  may  learn  to  grow, 

Chromatic  scales;   symphonious  chords. 

And,  too,  some  wizard  wind  may  bless 
With  lyric  power  from  heaven  cast, 
To  wind  enchanting  bugle-blast 

To  charm  men's  souls  to  righteousness. 

For  God  the  frailest  soul  may  teach, — 
Endow  with  inspiration  true, 
To  breathe  from  out  the  heavens  anew 

Those  lofty  thoughts  men's  souls  may  reach: 

The  love  of  Honor,  Truth,  the  Good, 
To  work  for  others,  though  alone; 
Erect  within  the  heart  a  throne 

Where  God  may  reign  and  bless  the  blood. 


VI. 

By  outward  seeming,  some  are  prone 

To  magnify  too  deep  within 

Each  toiler's  frailty  to  sin, 
Too  oft  but  mirror  of  their  own. 

Who  does  not  make  man's  coat  the  test, 
But  judges  by  the  work  he  saw, 
Who  hails  the  diamond,  not  the  flaw, 

Will  find  that  toilers  oft  are  blest. 


JOAQUIN    MILLER,    THE    MINER. 


The  uncut  jewels  of  the  mind, 

When  polished  into  shining  thought, 
Are  oft  with  rarest  wisdom  fraught, 

And  glow  with  love  for  human-kind. 


11 


Toil.  13 


VII. 

I  hold  that  crudest  utterance, 
Stupidity,  or  ignorance, 
All  voicing  seeming  impudence, 
Are  full  offset  by  innocence. 

I  deem  it  better  to  be  blind 

In  all  those  wicked  ways  and  wiles, 
Where  human  brains  are  used  as  files 

To  rasp  false  keys,  false  charts  unwind. 

'T  is  better  to  be  blind  and  dumb, 
Than  tune  the  voice  to  honeyed  key, 
To  hide  the  blackest  infamy, 

Lend  eye  and  tongue  to  wrath  to  come. 


VIII. 

The  humble  hoer  of  the  field 

Bears  kinship  to  the  great  of  old, 

Who  worked  with  God  ere  earth  was  cold, 

Or  virgin  soil  did  fullness  yield. 

In  every  breast  a  garden  grows; 

In  every  soul  an  angel  sings; 

In  every  breath  I  hear  the  wings ; 
And  every  sod  doth  yield  a  rose. 

With  dews  of  toil  upon  his  brow, 
Who  listens  close  may  hear  the  voice 
That  bade  the  shepherds'  hearts  rejoice ; 

For  God  is  ever  in  the  Now. 


14  Toil. 

With  every  sphere  of  industry, 
The  hoe  flings  flash  in  sympathy; 
Each  hammer  beats  in  symphony 

To  song  of  sonl  o'er  Psychic  Sea. 

'T  was  labor  snng  when  Motion  woke, 
And  all  was  centered  in  a  breath, 
Ere  earth  knew  aught  of  life  or  death, 

Or  light  upon  a  morning  broke. 

Ere  gas  to  gas  in  atoms  flew, 

Unblessed  by  bond  or  marriage  laws, 
The  song  of  toil  without  a  pause 

Was  breaking  all  the  vastness  through, 

Until  it  blossomed  forth  in  laws, 
The  soul  of  truest  harmonies, 
The  laws  of  true  affinities, 

True  poetry, —  Effect  and  Cause. 

It  sings  through  matter's  moving  soul, 
With  trained  Reason's  siren  voice, 
'Til  toil  and  art  in  gifts  rejoice. 

It  sings  the  soul's  divinest  goal. 


IX. 

Beyond  the  wildest  flights  of  time, 
Before  the  man  or  thing  had  birth, 
With  soul  of  Motion  in  a  breath 

Was  poured  in  toil  the  soul  of  rhyme. 


Toil.  15 

Far  higher  than  the  highest  height, 

With  all  the  spheres  in  sympathy, 

It  voices  song  of  mystery, 
Along  the  longest  reach  of  light. 

Beyond  the  deepest  depths  and  scopes, 

Its  songs  in  waves  circumference; 

Beyond  the  scope  of  Inference; 
Beyond  the  dreamers'  dreams  and  hopes. 

It  is  the  chastener  and  the  light 

That  moves  the  secret  springs  of  soul; 
That  rills  and  thrills  from  pole  to  pole; 

Preserves  the  truth,  keeps  honor  bright. 

Through  cycles  as  the  ages  ripe, 

Along  the  passing  centuries, 

Unfolding  nature's  mysteries, 
It  made  the  printer  and  the  type. 

It  moved  the  brain  of  Angelo. 

With  Titian  it  spread  the  paint; 

With  Raphael  it  limned  the  saint, — 
'T  is  Inspiration's  richest  glow. 

'T  is  Genius  when  intensified, 
And  leaps  the  air  with  godlike  stride, 
The  highest  peaks  of  song  to  ride, 
Till  art  and  artist's  deified. 


16  Toil. 

x. 

The  force  of  birth,  each  pang  of  pain, 
Is  that  as  bears  the  stars  apart, 
7T  is  beating  through  the  human  heart, 

7T  is  throbbing  through  the  human  brain. 

To  motion  all  creation  's  lent, 

For  change  is  law  of  life  and  space, 
No  pause  forever  in  the  race, 

'T  is  everywhere  omnipotent. 

In  idleness  there  is  no  rest; 

From  indolence  there  flows  no  weal; 

The  planets  in  their  courses  wheel; 
Wins  happiness  true  toil  with  zest. 

XI. 

Thou  partner  of  the  shining  spheres, 
Within  the  workshops  of  the  world! 
Preserve  thy  manhood's  flag  unfurled, 

And  mail  thy  soul  'gainst  idle  fears. 

Nail  Truth  and  Honor  to  the  mast; 

With  upright  living  brighten  thought; 

Let  words  and  acts  from  light  be  wrought, 
And  learn  the  lessons  of  the  Past. 

XII. 

I  hold  that  wealth  cannot  alone 

Produce  for  man  the  happy  state,— 
The  pure  of  heart  with  soul  elate 

Alone  may  sing  in  joyous  tone. 


Toil.  17 

Lo,  here  is  one  who  spends  on  Lust; 

And  some  are  ruined  by  game  of  Chance; 

And  there  doth  lurch  Intemperance; 
And  here  are  all  returned  to  Dust. 

For  wealth  its  weight  of  woe  must  bear, 
That  waits  on  man  to  latest  breath; 
It  cannot  waive  the  grave  or  death; 

It  cannot  save,  or  ward  off  fear. 

To  wealth  comes  wantonness  with  fears. 

That  wait  on  carnal  appetites; 

Corrosive  passions'  acid  bites 
For  youth  and  life  cut  scant  the  years. 

Ambitious  hopes,  desires  are  vain, 

Unless  they  aim  for  highest  good; 

To  win  but  wins  to  troublous  brood; 
To  fail,  we  brood  in  trouble's  train. 

Contentment  flows  from  honest  work, 
And  virtue  sweetens  proud  content; 
Of  toil  it  is  the  supplement: 

Where  virtue  dwells  no  cares  can  lurk. 

Through  all  the  rashness  of  our  youth, 
Through  all  the  fevers  of  the  blood, 
'T  is  toil  that  saves  from  vilest  brood; 

'T  is  toiling  leads  and  makes  for  truth. 


18  Toil, 

XIII. 

Who  life  had  seen  relieved  of  dustr 
Full  absolute  in  purity, 
His  soul  would  swell  in  ecstasy, 

He  never  more  would  wed  with  Lust. 

He  ne'er  had  stooped  to  scornful  scan, 
The  humble  hoer  of  the  field, 
His  noble  gifts  had  ne'er  revealed 

But  words  of  loving  cheer  for  man. 

XIV. 

i 
The  shadows  lengthen  from  the  west; 

I  climb  the  hill  of  sweet  content; 

I  gaze  through  years  to  toiling  lent; 
They  wear  no  shade, —  I  did  my  best. 

Prom  out  the  mist  my  chimney  glows, 
My  heart  beats  chime  to  quicker  rate, 
There,  loving  hearts  impatient  wait, 

And  lips  that  glow  with  richest  rose. 

Each  greeting  maketh  Winter  Spring, 
Blooms  Spring  to  Summer  in  my  grasp, 
As  glowing  hearts  unite  to  clasp 

The  joys  that  love  around  doth  fling. 

xv. 
My  baby  clasped  upon  my  knee; 

My  wife  sits  smiling  by  my  side; 

Not  all  this  earth,  and  worlds  beside, 
Could  bring  increase  of  joy  to  me. 


Toil.  19 

With  face  less  human  than  divine, 
She  sits  and  smiles  on  babe  and  me; 
What  more  of  bliss  with  Wealth  can  be, 

Though  paled  within  its  social  line? 

The  measure  's  full,  and  that  is  all 

The  rich  may  have;   the  proud  may  boast 
Of  joy:  —  I  drink  in  well- pledged  toast, 

"As  much  as  mine  to  great  and  small." 


20  Toil. 


PART   II. 


i. 

A  toiler  on  the  edge  of  thought, 
-The  veil  removed  that  hid  from  me 
Those  scenes  my  youth  had  failed  to  see,— 

The  play  of  minds  with  wisdom  fraught. 

From  mystic  shore  with  barren  brain 
I  gaze,  where  lights  Elysian  fields 
From  crowning  heights  that  genius  yields, 

With  tears  and  thoughts  that  pour  like  rain. 

Springs  here  and  there  a  tuft  of  grass, 
And  there  and  here  a  common  flower, 
And  commonplace  with  dearth  of  power, 

And  commoner  that  yet  must  pass. 

Through  soul's  retort  and  mental  mill, 
To  grind  the  coarse,  from  dross  refine, 
Distilling  breath  to  brighter  line, 

To  flow  in  rhyme  a  shining  rill. 

In  cooler  shade  of  fifty  years, 

Where  blood  and  brawn  have  lost  their  prime ; 

Where  doves  have  passed  their  cooing- time, 
And  human  minds  are  fraught  with  fears:  — 


Toil.  21 

Through  days  where  passion  halts  for  sense, 

I  toil,  and  study  out  the  past, 

The  thoughts  and  hopes  that  there  are  glassed, 
A  prophet  of  Experience. 

Perchance  some  note  with  music  fraught, 
Perchance  some  word  with  wisdom  wise, 
Perchance  some  wit  from  happier  skies, 

Some  lyric  from  the  heavens  caught, 

May  fall  like  manna  in  my  brain, 

To  quicken  all  the  germs  of  sense, 

And  bloom  to  glowing  eloquence 
From  buds  that  shall  not  burst  in  vain. 


n. 

Lo,  darkness  broodeth  o'er  the  hour, 
As  drizzling  falls  the  dreary  rain, 
So  shadows  oft  foreshadow  gain, 

For  every  drop  shall  yield  a  flower. 

It  follows  man  his  mind  above, 

That  shade  and  shine  must  alternate, 
That  good  and  ill  on  earth  must  mate, 

And  sorrow  stalk  in  wake  of  love. 

By  shift  of  light  from  sorrow's  strand, 
I  found  a  spot  with  wisdom  fraught, 
Enthroned  around  the  bend  of  thought 

Were  Mirth  and  Wit  joined  hand  in  hand. 


Toil. 

And  down  they  flew,  we  circled  three,— 
Together  danced  the  sparkling  grass; 
The  ghosts  of  fear  —  dark  shadows  —  pass : 

Looked  brighter  all  the  earth  to  me. 

With  kindest  smile  I  haste  to  greet 

The  humblest  wight  that  treads  the  earth; 
No  brother's  soul  of  good  bears  dearth, 

E'en  fungus  growths  make  sweetest  meat. 

And  uttered  oft  is  noblest  thought 

Through  lips  that  clothe  with  raucous  voice,- 
Those  thoughts  that  make  the  soul  rejoice, 

And  bless  the  teacher  and  the  taught. 


m. 

Who  raises,  hoping  present  gain, 
False  hopes  to  lure  the  toiling  poor, 
False  fancies  which  from  toil  allure, 

Will  reap  the  interest  of  pain. 

For  he  that  lends  himself  to  Hate 
Becomes  the  galley-slave  of  Pain; 
He  rows  within  no  dawn  of  Gain; 

He  reaps  but  loss  to  low  estate. 

But  all  for  him  bodes  future  well, 

Whose  breast  doth  swell  for  him  who  sows: 
Whose  tribute,  like  a  tree  or  rose, 

Lends  calm  repose  where  hoers  dwell. 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN,    THE    RAIL- SPLITTER. 


The  humblest  toiler  here  may  hope 
For  highest  gifts  at  Freedom's  hand. 


23 


Toil.  25 

IV. 

Unfold  the  parchment  of  the  brain, 

And  write  thereon  of  wisest  deed, 

In  lines  of  life  and  light  that  lead 
To  quicken  thought  to  richest  gain :  — 

Those  thoughts  of  patience,  faith,  and  power, 
To  bless  and  crown  each  weary  hour; 
That  blossom  soul  and  sense  to  flower, 
Though  suns  may  shine  or  shadows  lower. 

The  thoughts  of  God  that  silent  brings 
Quick  peace  to  thirsting  hearts  in  dread, 
Like  angels  winging  'round  the  head 

To  lead  the  mind  to  brighter  springs, 

Uplifting  thoughts  above  the  broil, 

Till  warp  and  woof  of  being  rings 

Superior  sense, —  till  Labor's  kings 
Find  Rest's  and  Love's  true  charm  in  Toil. 

The  words  that  glow,  the  thoughts  that  bloom, 

In  rich  or  poorest  human's  breast, 

The  hopes  that  lull  the  soul  to  rest, 
That  brighten  hearts,  and  banish  gloom. 

A  thought  to  brighten  in  the  tomb, 
Where  Sorrow  sits  with  failing  breath, 
A-leaning  to  the  clutch  of  Death, 

A  thought  to  save  from  pending  doom. 


26  Toil. 

v. 

An  Orpheus  the  mate  of  Toil, 

I  'd  blow  a  reed  through  seething  Hell, 
To  banish  all  the  fears  that  dwell, 

From  breast  of  labor  that  embroil. 

My  Eurydice  from  fires  of  Lust, 
From  hydra-heads  of  vip'rous  Hate 
I  7d  lead  the  soul  to  higher  state; 

Divorce  the  ape,  inspire  the  dust. 

With  heavenly  soul  and  music's  spells; 
With  gentle  thought  the  face  aglow, 
All  neatly  turned  in  speech  to  flow, 

And  show  the  world:   Here  Culture  dwells. 

To  shun  those  paths  with  evil  fraught, 
And  shallowness  with  vain  pretense, 
Where  sin  doth  win  to  impotence, 

Those  murky  meres  and  slums  of  thought. 

From  Scylla  of  Intemperance; 

The  fearful  Charybdis  of  Lust; 

The  way  to  kindle  leaden  dust; 
And  how  to  mold  a  circumstance. 


VI. 

With  love  and  hope  to  light  the  way, 
The  changing  seasons  joyous  live 
And  move  with  melodies  that  give 

A  solace  to  the  darkest  dav. 


TotV. 

The  light  that  paints  the  eastern  hills 
With  royal  line  delights  mine  eye; 
The  green  and  gold  flecked  crimson  sky, 

The  music  of  the  nrnrinnring  rills, 

Are  mine.     All  mine!     My  soul  is  fraught! 
The  changing  beauties  of  his  skies 
That  spread  before  the  toiler's  eyes, 

Transforms  and  flies, —  no  art  hath  caught. 

Within  the  halls  of  wealth  and  state, 
No  trapping  can  compare  with  these; 
The  touch  of  the  Infinities; 

The  glories  of  my  grand  estate. 


VII. 

The  signal  bell  so  joyful  rings; 
I  gladly  pass  the  portals  wide 
To  toil  with  brothers  side  by  side, 

Where  thoughts  are  wrought  direct  to  things. 

O  teachers  with  the  raucous  voice, 
Who  gloveless  handle  sons  of  toil, 
Be  with  us;   here  is  chance  to  boil 

Out  honest  facts;   here  gods  rejoice. 

Ye  prate  of  signs,  and  words,  and  tense; 
The  toiler's  crude  attempts  at  verse, 
His  manner,  and  his  vice  rehearse, 

His  ignorance  and  impotence. 


28  Toil. 

Know!   words  are  chaff,  and  not  the  grain; 
'T  is  thought  that  blossoms  into  act, 
Which  gives  to  man,  through  toil,  a  fact,— 

Some  thing;   some  hope  of  bread;   some  gain. 

The  toiler  is  the  breath  of  God, 
No  hour  that  's  woven  into  years, 
But  something  in  his  hands  he  bears,— 

Some  gift  for  man  from  out  the  sod. 

No  troops  of  horrid  phantoms  pass 
Before  the  hopeful  toiler's  eyes; 
He  does  not  pass  his  days  in  sighs ; 

He  never  cries,  "Alas!   alas!  n 

His  heart  is  not  a  vase  of  tears, 

Where  sorrow  cries  for  something  lost; 
He  pays  from  out  his  strength  the  cost 

Of  life  to  God  —  his  toiling  years. 


vm. 

0  son  of  toil!   where'er  thou  art, 

I  pledge  to  thee  while  life  shall  run. 
Thou  partner  of  the  blessed  sun ! 

1  drink  to  thee  from  fullest  heart. 

Without  thee,  all  but  work  of  chance; 

The  tares  would  choke  what  blooms  to  flower, 

And  beauty  fade  in  briefest  hour. 
Your  hands  create  God's  circumstance. 


Toil.  29 

Without  thee,  seasons  roll  in  vain; 

But  jungles  spring  from  out  the  dust; 

Or  deserts  with  a  basic  crust 
Would  bear  no  blossom  for  the  rain. 


IX. 

But  I  must  move  with  bovine  pace, 
A  stolid  ox  with  brutal  mind; 
So  saith  a  genius  of  our  kind, — 

A  lordly  mind  with  courtly  grace. 

Am  I  the  brother  of  the  ox? 

And  he  an  ape  with  longer  rope, 
Who  climbs  to  view  a  wider  scope,— 

Sees  genii  leave  his  prison  box! 

Or  fisherman  who  casts  the  net, 

And  drags  the  box  from  out  the  deep? 
Far  better  let  the  genii  sleep, 

Than  to  unbind  to  vain  regret; 

Far  better  let  the  tiger  die ; 

Far  better  ape  evolve  to  ox; 

Consign  the  monster  of  the  box 
Forever  in  the  depths  to  lie. 

Condense  those  vapors,  Rank  and  Hate, 
With  Prejudice,  beneath  a  wave 
Of  Labor's  self-respect,  and  save 

Through  higher  ways  to  noblest  state. 


30  Toil. 

Don't  leave  us  indexed  by  your  scorn, 

Upheld  upon  your  pen  to  view; 

With  genius7  flowers  our  pathway  strew; 
Bring  love  to  light  each  coming  morn. 

With  love  and  truth  to  light  out  scorn, 
And  like  a  herald  in  the  east, 
Go,  blow  your  bugles  for  the  feast,— 

High  priest's  reveille  to  the  morn. 

Proud  manhood's  priest,  and  prophet  too, 

The  poet  who  but  lends  to  Peace; 

Who  sings  contentment  to  release 
The  toiler's  soul  from  bane  and  rue. 

To  teach  that  toil  is  light  from  God; 

That  Idleness  leads  swift  to  crime; 

That  Vice  and  Sloth  beat  even  time, 
With  eyes  cast  downward  to  the  sod, 

Beat  slow  and  sure  in  equal  pace, 

O'er  paths  where  naught  from  Shame  may  save 
Beat  slow  and  sure  to  pauper's  grave, 

And  weeds  that  clog  the  upward  race. 

Make  holocaust  of  naked  art, 

And  build  the  fire  upon  the  bones 

Of  hoary  hermit  that  intones 
With  brain  of  mold  and  heart  of  stone. 


JAMES  A.    GARFIELD   ON   THE   TOWPATH. 

Who  looks  aloft,  and  reaches  far 
For  wisdom's  light  to  noblest  gifts, 
Himself  to  highest  heights  uplifts: 

His  spirit  soars,  a  shining  star. 


31 


Toil. 


From  out  the  homes  where  virtue  dwells 
Keep  harlots  from  a  putrid  past; 
The  ape,  the  fouling  faun,  the  beast, 

The  vilest  spawns  from  ancient  hells. 

x. 

Electra  wildly  through  the  night, 
She  flies  o'er  many  a  darksome  road. 
No  orbit  guides,  no  fixed  abode, — 

A  menace  to  each  steady  light. 

Ah,  better  far  she  bind  her  locks, 
And  be  the  seventh  beauty  rare, 
To  steady  plod  our  evening  air; 

Swing  full  to  view  of  "  brother  ox." 

And  in  the  handle  or  the  bowl, 

She  shine  full  brilliant  to  our  view, 
I  pledge  the  Dipper  full  to  who 

Rebuilds  a  Troy,  redeems  a  soul. 

XI. 

And  this  is  knowledge,  so  't  is  said, 
To  catalogue  and  mark  such  wares, 
Without  which,  Toil  is  in  arrears, 

With  drooping  jaws,  and  reason  fled. 

Pray,  keep  the  knowledge!     Toil  is  wise 
To  lay  aside  the  marking-pot; 
We  '11  jumble  up  the  wretched  lot,— 

The  sin  and  shame,  the  lies  and  sighs, 


34  Toil. 

That  cling  around  those  moldering  walls. 

What  matter  if  the  satyr  sleeps! 

What  matter  if  Niobe  weeps, 
Or  Endymion  sleeps  or  crawls? 

We  '11  crunch  them  up,  and  grind  them  well, 
'Twixt  upper  and  the  nether  stones; 
What  matters  flesh  upon  the  bones! 

'T  was  seared  in  hottest  depths  of  hell. 

No  more  nude  Oreads  on  the  hills; 

No  satyrs'  beastly  intercourse; 

No  strumpet  naiads  out  in  force 
To  shame  their  silvery  native  rills. 

What  matter  if  nude  Nereids  hide 
For  evermore  beneath  the  waves, 
And  monsters'  slime  grow  hard  in  caves? 

'T  is  better  here  that  virtue  bide. 


XII. 

Breaths'  echoes  faint  of  ghostly  groans,— 
The  ghastly  ghosts  of  Trojan  wars,— 
Their  names  we  read  among  the  stars, 

Their  dust  is  lying  on  the  stones. 

But  dust  is  much,  and  names  are  naught; 

The  names  are  there,  the  dust  is  here; 

Their  good  is  neither  here  nor  there, 
And  yet  we  seek  for  what  they  sought. 


Toil.  35 

So,  rattle  up  the  hero  dust; 

A  Paris  and  a  Helen  take, 

And  mold  a  prophet,  or  a  fake. 
Our  hoes  have  split  the  ages'  crust! 

Here,  Argus  with  his  hundred  eyes; 

Go,  hide  him  quick  —  he  sees  too  much; 

Lame  Poesy  upon  a  crutch; 
Quick!   rip  her  up!    'twill  save  us  sighs. 

Hie  jacet  Achilles  the  Great, 

And  Memnos  of  the  mighty  mind. 

Alas!   is  memory  unkind, 
Immortals  to  amorphous  state 

Reduce!     We  '11  mold  to  better  plan: 
'T  was  booty,  blood,  and  lust  for  power 
Brought  proudest  of  the  earth  to  flower. 

We  '11  mold  anew  through  Son  of  man. 

We  '11  mold  anew  the  tiger  dust, 

And  bind  with  Christ's  own  precious  blood, 

And  blend  a  race  in  brotherhood, 
With  ash  of  Apes  and  wrecks  of  Lust. 


xm. 
Build  up  the  new  from  out  the  Past; 

Erase  the  crust  from  off  the  stones. 

What  matter?     Rattle  up  the  bones, — 
But  dust  to  dust  that 's  breathed  its  last. 


36  Toil. 

What  matter?     Fashion  it  anew; 

The  elements  combine  in  place. 

The  good,  the  better,  and  the  bas<> 
Are  built  alike,  from  but  a  few. 

It  matters  not  from  what  we  take ; 
It  matters  much  how  we  combine  — 
The  atoms  mix  and  on  what  line  — 

To  toadstool  or  the  toothsome  make : 

Lo,  there,  o'er  Agamemnon  dead, 

There  blooms  the  sweetest- scented  rose 
That  in  the  cultured  garden  grows ; 

The  richest  scent,  the  deepest  red. 

And  here,  where  lieth  hideous  hate, 
A  lily  blooms,  of  purest  white,— 
A  ray  of  light,  grown  to  indict 

Those  growlers  at  the  hands  of  Fate. 


XIV. 

The  shadows  blacken  o'er  the  grass; 

A  shiver  creeps,  I  gasp  for  breath; 

A  fear,  like  from  the  face  of  Death, 
Did  slowly  o'er  my  senses  pass. 

I  've  passed  an  ancient  gate  of  hell, 
I  'm  haunted  in  a  hideous  grot 
By  nightmares  brooding  o'er  the  spot, — 

I  'm  seized  as  by  a  demon's  spell. 


Toil.  37 

Old  Sisyphus  with  stone  is  near 

(This  figure  caused  us  recent  sigh), 
Here  's  Yankee  hands  to  roll  it  high, 

And  Yankee  wit  to  keep  it  there. 

Amid  these  scenes  ^neas  trod, 

While  hell  was  young  and  passing  warm, 
With  living  monsters  still  in  swarm, 

With  Rhadamanthus  cursing  God. 

And  this  is  hell;   so  here  are  we 

Beyond  the  power  of  farther  flight  — 
To  farther  depths;   we  '11  follow  light, 

With  farthest  suns  in  symphony. 


xv. 

O  Lyra  with  the  beauteous  light! 

We  hail  thee  as  the  men  of  old. 

We  're  rushing  since  the  sun  first  rolled; 
We  seem  no  nearer  thee  to-night. 

Through  all  the  a'ons  passed  of  time, 

Our  solar  system  flies  to  thee; 

Like  lightning's  flash  through  ether  sea 
We  speed,  but  never  gain  a  line. 

Art  thou  a  star,  or  likeness  fair 

From  some  diviner  sunlight  caught? 
Some  ignis  fatuus  danger-fraught, 

Or  empty  castle  in  the  airf 


38  Toil. 

Arcturus,  the  great  southern  star, 

Is  speeding  earthward  swift  as  light,— 
For  aeons  flying  'cross  the  night, 

And  yet  we  hail  it  from  afar. 

And  what  are  they,  and  what  are  we? 

And  whence  began,  and  whither  go? 

Or  go  forever  —  never  know  — 
Forever  fly  through  Mystery? 

But  God  is  ever  looking  down, 
Whatever  finds  our  hands  to  do. 
Though  hid  from  sight  or  full  in  view, 

In  duty  fail,  we  '11  feel  his  frown. 


XVI. 

The  stormy  morn  awakens  pale; 

No  rosy  sunlight  plays  a  part; 

But  light  grows  strong  from  out  my  heart, 
To  gild  the  path,  or  blaze  the  trail. 

The  Winter's  hueless  folds  of  cloud 
Throw  o'er  the  earth  a  wannish  glare; 
No  songs  of  birds  to  greet  the  air; 

Within,  my  heart  is  singing  loud. 

For  why  should  I,  the  lord  of  all, 

Whose  soul  to  love's  true  cadence  swings, 
Be  influenced  by  soulless  things, 

My  hopes  to  droop,  my  spirits  fall? 


Toil.  39 

Barometer  for  cloud  and  storm, 

A  time- glass  for  the  gloomy  hours, 

A  horologe  in  sunless  showers, 
A  soulless,  dull,  mechanic  form? 

My  soul  is  sun  unto  the  morn; 

It  bides  with  bliss  through  storm  and  shower. 

It  lights  with  love  each  gloomy  hour, 
And  all  my  ways  with  bloom  adorn. 


XVII. 

Lord,  did  we  know  that  thou  art  near, 
Forever  standing  by  our  side, 
Would  be  no  baseness  then  to  hide, 

Nor  consequence  of  crime  breed  fear. 

Be  with  us,  Lord,  in  conscious  form. 

Preserve  from  sin,  preserve  from  shame, 
That  ripens  through  the  sensuous  frame, 

That  wins  but  wrath  and  noble  scorn. 

O,  teach  us  random  thought  to  mold, 
And  shape  to  noble  influence, 
That  blooms  to  blessed  consequence, 

As  flowers  develop  and  unfold. 

Remold,  refashion  thought  in  words, 
By  heaven's  gracious  alchemy, 
Full  free  from  obscene  blasphemy, 

And  touch  our  beings'  sweetest  chords. 


40  Toil. 

Remold,  refashion,  and  renew 

The  minds  that  grope  through  darkest  ways ; 

Their  steps  retrace  to  light  and  praise; 
Shape  mind  and  heart  to  wisest  view. 

Bid  Eros  speed  recruits  from  Mars; 

May  evermore  be  sheathed  the  sword; 

Through  poets  weave  thy  mystic  Word; 
And  save  us  from  the  shock  of  wars. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A  SONG. 

This  nosegay,  my  sweet,  from  thy  hand, 
By  thy  hand  freshly  plucked  from  the  field, 

Love,  the  touch  of  thy  hand  is  a  magician's  wand 
That  without  it  no  odor  't  would  yield. 

By  the  light  of  the  dewdrops  it  bears, 
That  like  tears  glisten  fresh  from  the  lea, 

I  do  swear  that  as  Time  for  me  years  shall  entwine 
Shall  my  soul  bud  to  bloom  but  for  thee. 

Should  a  weed  feel  the  touch  of  thy  hand, 
'T  would  expand  ever  fragrant  and  fair; 

And  my  soul  like  a  rose  would  rich  beauty  disclose, 
As  a  rose  exhale  sweets  to  the  air. 


A  WOMAN'S  REQUEST. 

"  Sing  me  a  sweet,  glad  song  of  the  heart," 

Like  a  bird's,  escaped  from  prison; 
A  song  of  delight  that  had  birth  above 

Ere  sun  o'er  a  sea  had  risen. 
A  trill  from  the  rill  of  love  divine, 

As  it  flows  to  the  mystic  sea  — 
A  chord,  that  shall  thrill  my  soul,  from  thine 

With  a  joyous  ecstasy. 
41 


42  Miscellaneous. 

Tell  me  the  tale,  as  of  olden  told, 

In  the  deathless  words  that  shine, 
In  the  old,  sweet  words,  ere  a  star  had  rolled, 

That  were  poured  from  lips  divine. 
Voice  me  the  glow  of  a  heart's  true  love, 

Ere  love  ever  linked  with  shame; 
A  love  that  is  pure  as  heaven  above, 

And  I  '11  carve  on  my  heart  thy  name. 


SONG. 

Let  us  sing  as  the  moments  fly, 

And  the  days  will  not  seem  long, 

When  the  heart  and  the  voice  rejoice 

In  a  soul  that  is  filled  with  song; 

In  a  life  that  is  free  from  stain 

Let  it  fly  on  a  gladsome  wing; 

To  the  toiler's  soul,  like  a  cheering  bowl 

Is  the  song  with  a  cheery  ring. 

Let  us  laugh,  and  our  toil  is  play, 

Though  we  work  till  the  hour  be  late; 

Let  us  laugh  and  sing  while  our  hammers  ringr 

And  we  pluck  out  a  flower  from  fate. 

With  a  heart  that  no  fate  lends  fear, 

Let  us  joy  while  the  day  is  young; 

Let  us  live  ever  bright,  with  our  souls  to  the  light r 

Where  the  jewels  of  life  are  strung. 


JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY,    THE    PAINTER. 

The  humblest  wight  may  highest  soar, 
The  highest  peaks  of  song  invest: 
The  crudest  thought  in  simple  breast, 

Refined,  may  shine  the  richest  ore. 

43 


Miscellaneous.  45 


LOVE   AMONG   METAPHORS. 

Birth  is  a  curve,  love,  and  Death  is  its  mate, 
And  Life  is  the  clause,  love,  that 's  held  at  low  rate; 
And  minor  the  key  is;    't  is  rung  in  by  Fate. 
This  world  would  naught  be  without  it. 

Between  these  two  curves,  love,  together,  we  two, 
So  close  to  my  heart  I  would  swing,  sweet,  with  you; 
And  your  eyes  would  be  heaven  forever  in  view  — 
My  life,  love,  is  worthless  without  you. 

And  Time  is  a  sea,  love,  and  Life  is  a  wave, 
And  Birth  is  the  starter;   the  goal  is  the  grave. 
'T  is  mighty  rough  riding,  this  billow  we  crave  — 
The  ride,  love,  is  lonely  without  you. 

And  Hope  is  a  truant,  who  swims  all  the  day; 
With  the  last  as  the  first,  love,  he  's  ripe  for  the  fray; 
And  he  '11  keep  on  a-swimming  till  the  last  fade  away- 
But  life  would  be  flat,  love,  without  him. 

And  Birth  is  a  gate,  love,  and  Life  is  the  way; 
And  Heaven  a  playground,  I  've  heard  people  say; 
And  Death  is  the  fee  for  admission  we  pay- 
Your  love  would  be  pass-key  without  it. 

Is  Birth,  too,  a  'bus,  love?     And  Life  is  the  inn 
Where  Revel  and  Riot  so  oft  raise  a  din. 
But  the  lover  and  loved  are  safe  snuggled  in  — 
Mv  life  is  a  riot  without  vou. 


46  Miscellaneous. 

This  life  is  a  riddle,  and  Love  is  the  key. 
To  unravel  the  riddle,  love,  labor  with  me. 
And  Love  need  a  breeches,  we  '11  raise  a  fig  tree 
For  Cnpid  's  so  nude,  love,  without  it. 


EN   PASSANT. 

Lo,  there,  o'er  Agamemnon  dead, 

Doth  bloom  the  sweetest  blushing  rose 
That  in  the  cultured  garden  grows,— 

The  richest  scent,  the  deepest  red. 

Pray,  potter!   can  you  prophet  make 
From  blood  of  ass  and  ash  of  ape! 
From  dust  of  Shakespeare,  as  we  pass, 
Pray,  potter,  can  you  mold  an  ass? 
Make  bunko- steerers  lead  from  springs, 
Cast  sewer- pipe  from  mold  of  kings! 
And  canst  thou  mold  a  hero's  bust 
From  coward's  dust  and  wrecks  of  Lust! 
A  patriot  from  Arnold's  mold! 
An  orator  from  clay  of  scold! 
A  cherub  from  a  Nero  make! 
A  preacher  from  the  dust  of  snake! 
From  crassament  of  coarsest  ox 
Canst  shape  a  Markham  on  thy  blocks! 
And  whilst  about  it,  potter,  say, 
A  hoeman  mold  from  Markham 's  clay; 
From  John  B.  Gough  —  God  rest  his  soul 
Please  fashion  bacchanalian  bowl; 


Miscellaneous.  47 

Madonna's  face  from  Gorgon's,  fierce; 

The  bust  of  Christ  from  Ambrose  Bierce. 

And,  potter  friend,  now  wilt  thou  hence 

From  Jordan's  grave  shape  man  of  sense? 

O'er  dust  of  Omar,  as  we  pass, 

There  stands  an  empty  whisky- glass, — 

From  hand  that  held,  the  lip  did  sup, 

Canst  fashion  a  communion-cup? 

Unlike  old  Omar,  I  will  not 

Ask,  Which  is  potter?  which  the  pot? 


OUR  FRIENDS  OF   LONG  AGO. 
To  MR.  AND  MRS.  W.  A.  PATTERSON. 

Ah,  brighter  far  than  crest  or  star 

Is  Friendship's  heart  of  gold,— 
The  love  that  flight  of  time  can't  mar, 

Nor  frosts  of  age  bring  cold. 
The  sweetest  thing  that  life  can  bring 

Comes  with  the  hearts  aglow, 
Of  dear  old  friends,  the  true  old  friends, 

The  friends  of  long  ago. 

Bright  beauty  rare  with  golden  hair, 

And  jeweled  hand  and  breast; 
Shone  millionaires  and  princes  there, 

With  many  a  star  and  crest. 
As  swept  along  the  social  throng, 

With  happiness  aglow 
Came  dear  old  friends,  the  long- tried  friends, 

The  friends  of  long  ago. 


48  Miscellaneous. 

O,  glad  surprise  'neath  Western  skies 

To  meet,  't  was  happy  fate. 
My  friend  was  wise  —  who  proudly  tries 

May  rise  to  rich  estate. 
The  joyful  play  of  souls  that  day 

But  truest  hearts  can  know 
When  memory  blends,  for  old-time  friends, 

The  lights  of  long  ago. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  March  19,  1900. 


YC   14541 


